


Forget Your Name, Forget Your Fear

by biodigitaljazz



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Canon Gay Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Cecil Has A Third Eye, Earthquakes and other unexplained geological anomalies, First Meeting, Friendship becoming love, Gay sex in future chapters, M/M, No tentacles though sorry, Paranormal phenomenons, Series of strange and inexplicable occurrences, Very slight backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-09 20:11:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biodigitaljazz/pseuds/biodigitaljazz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We need to stop thinking linearly and skeptically, and open our minds to the unknown. To… to paranormal studies, to possible extraterrestrial occurrences. To global catastrophes that are beyond the limits of our current understanding. Do you see what I'm getting at? If anyone is going to make any kind of rational sense out of what's going on in this town, it's going to be someone trustworthy, hard-working, dependable, and intelligent."</p><p>The stubborn hitch in Carlos's shoulders has been melting dejectedly away with every word. "So you chose me," he concludes dryly and joylessly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hoo boy this is gonna be a long one.  
> let's do this, Night Vale fandom, I gotchu.
> 
> * * *

When he gets the assignment, that's exactly what happens. He gets it. It is unexpectedly dropped, with no small amount of relief from his superior, into his proverbial (thankfully, not literal) lap. This sort of thing has happened before, no consent or permission needed on his part, just an assignment that has already had his name messily tacked to it before it's even been presented to him. He's learned to stop letting it anger him (though the subsequent annoyance still lingers; nothing he can really do about that) and accept his duties the way a scientist should - responsibly, gratefully, and honorably. 

His initial reaction is just that. A twinge of the annoyance, a swallow of the coffee he'd just finished drinking when the manila folder was slapped down in front of him, almost on top of the petri dishes he'd taken upon himself to be cleaning and examining for wear or cracks that morning, a tightened jaw as the folder was taken into his own hands and flipped open. The annoyance fading. The sense of responsibility and curiosity replacing it. Robotic. Familiar. Safe.

He starts reading, quickly, because the nature of his work has designed him to compute and absorb written information as fast as his brain can manage. A town in the southwest, small, quaint, not an incredibly high population, levels of radiation reported to be unusually high and fluctuant for its area in the United States. That alone could be enough to raise an eyebrow, but the hand gripping his mug of lukewarm, black coffee doesn't actually pause halfway to his mouth until he skips from the basic introductions of his newly appointed location and assigned project down to the actual nature of it.

And pause it does, sludge of caffeine and scattered grounds that came from the misfortune of taking the last cup in the pot sloshing gently, uselessly inside the mug, a brow pulling itself slowly and gradually inward with confusion.

No way can this be real. This place isn't usually accustomed to pranks, but there is actually no way that this can be real.

The annoyance is making a comeback, petulantly elbowing Responsibility out of the way and standing at the forefront of his brain with its proverbial hands balled on its proverbial hips. He's up and out of his seat within a handful of seconds, coffee and dishes forgotten, folder clutched in one hand while the other slowly removes his glasses and massages at the irritated indents that the pads have left on the bridge of his nose.

He did not come in expecting A Day today, but that's what it seems like he's going to wind up getting.

His supervisor's door is wide open, as it usually is, but he raps his knuckles along the wooden frame anyway as a courtesy. He hears the invitation to enter and turns the rest of the way around the corner to push into the room, carefully sliding his glasses back onto his face. He's trying not to get into this in a harried kind of way, but _really_ , nobody should be _literally_ dropping an assignment like this onto him and casually walking away without explaining a few things.

His supervisor, an aging man with a crown of salt and pepper hair framing a shiny spot of nothing on the top of his head, wears the cocktailed expression of guilt and resignation that Carlos was expecting from the start. He leans back in his seat with the pen he'd previously been writing with still cradled between his short, stumpy fingers. 

"Yes, Carlos." It doesn't come out as an inquiry, but as a sigh of expectation. He saw this coming. He knows his top scientists better than he knows his own children, at this rate. What makes them tick. What peaks their curiosities and ignites their passions. Also, what pisses them off.

Carlos wordlessly holds the folder up and quirks his eyebrows questioningly. 

The supervisor, really a nice man despite his firm nature at work, likes Carlos. Carlos is a very _good_ scientist and he respects his work ethic, his dedication. He's grown close to the younger man over the years, and can easily tolerate this kind of attitude coming from him the way a father would tolerate his teenager stomping loudly up the stairs to their room after ending a fight with a screaming and probably untruthful 'I hate you'. Anyone else would probably be admonished. But not Carlos.

Plus, he knew that this reaction was likely to happen.

He clears his throat softly and spreads his hands a little, elbows planted firmly on his chair's arms. "What about it?"

"I need you to tell me now if this is some kind of joke."

"Why would I joke about a long-term assignment?"

Carlos falters, but only a little. "I, you wouldn't, but--" he stammers, then clears his own throat and lowers the folder. "This just doesn't seem like something you would hand to me."

The supervisor sighs again. "Look. Did you read the entire thing?"

"I didn't have to get too far to be convinced that this has to be an elaborate prank."

"It's not a prank, Carlos."

Carlos raises only one eyebrow this time, before flipping the folder open. He scans down, picking details from the proposal out at random. "Angelic anomalies, possible dimensional tears, disappearances that remain undocumented by the authorities, appearances and disappearances of ancient historic landmarks --" He taps his thumb against his tongue and flips the page. "-- unexplained and unimaginable weather conditions, _regular_ paranormal phenomenons, devastating seismic activity that would level most _big_ cities but has seemingly left this small one completely untouched…" 

He stops, then, looking back up at his superior. His expression is haughty and unbelieving, deservedly expectant.

"I find this kind of thing insulting, sir," he finally says, and while he's tacked on the 'sir' as a punctuation of politeness, his tone suggests anything but.

"I wish you wouldn't see it that way," the supervisor says evenly, and while he's been trying to stay as sympathetic as possible, he's letting his authority creep back into his voice. He may like Carlos, but the younger man has to remember that he is an employee right now. 

Carlos gets it, because he's smart. He seems to deflate a little, but not entirely. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Go back and read the assignments you just listed. The only way this would be an insult is if it was a joke, but I can assure you that nobody is pulling your leg here, Carlos. I've been sitting on this file for days wondering how to approach it and who to assign to it."

Carlos's mouth presses into a line after he quips back, "You could have pulled me aside to discuss it with me."

The supervisor's hands lift, palms to Carlos, like a white flag being raised. "You're right about that," he admits. "And I'm sorry. Giving it to you and walking away without explanation wasn't my best move."

Carlos doesn't say anything, but he 'mm's his agreement softly.

"But I wouldn't assign anything this… strange to just anyone, Carlos. The reason I chose you was not to insult you. These reports and these findings and these rumours… they're all too much for an amateur. If we could blow even one or two of these oddities open, think about what we'd be accomplishing. We need to stop thinking linearly and skeptically, and open our minds to the unknown. To… to paranormal studies, to possible extraterrestrial occurrences. To global catastrophes that are beyond the limits of our current understanding. Do you see what I'm getting at? If anyone is going to make any kind of rational sense out of what's going on in this town, it's going to be someone trustworthy, hard-working, dependable, and intelligent."

The stubborn hitch in Carlos's shoulders has been melting away with every word. "So you chose me," he concludes dryly and joylessly.

"So I chose you. You're one of the best I have, Carlos. I can expect things to actually get done with you."

Carlos stares his superior down for a quiet moment, just breathing and limply holding the folder down by his side. Finally, he sighs, pulls the chair in front of him out, and drops down into it. His own white flag has risen. His fate is now engraved all over him. "So what does this entail?"

"We have a three year grant to work with," the supervisor reasons with him. "I'm expecting you to stay out there as long as you need to, until you feel that you've compiled enough and there is nothing left for you to investigate. I've already contacted the town and had a laboratory rented out for you. Has an apartment above it that you can live in. You report to me with data and information whenever you see fit, you make your own hours, YOU lead a small team that YOU get to hand-pick and bring with you, and I raise your salary a little as further compensation."

Carlos breathes out a soft, entirely humourless laugh. "You know, this would be a dream job if the circumstances were different."

The supervisor finally smiles a little. "Look, I'm trying to sweeten the deal for you as much as I can. Asking my best scientist to pick up his life and locate halfway across the country for an unknown amount of time isn't exactly easy for either of us."

"You could have chosen anyone," Carlos mutters tiredly, leaning on one of the armrests and pushing his chin into the heel of his hand.

"I could have. But I didn't. Because as much as I don't want to lose you here, work around here is slower than usual and you could be working on something a lot bigger and broader for me elsewhere. I gave you this while you were checking and sterilizing _petri dishes_ for Christ's sake. That's not how I should be putting someone like you to use, Carlos."

There is a point in a man's life when he is given a decision that does not have a clearly victorious outcome. The process of making the decision is a harrowing and difficult one. There are too many pros and cons to weigh. Logic and rationality are extremely hard to hold on to when there is a heavy financial influence being added to the mix. This fight, this war is being scrawled all over the lines of Carlos's face as he stares sightlessly at the corner of his supervisor's desk, breathing a bit too loudly through his nose and tapping the folder in his free hand against his leg. Pick up his life and leave for an actually unbelievable assignment for more money and authority over a team for the first time, or stay and stick with routine, which he is FAR more comfortable with, but continue to feel unfulfilled.

His eyes jump from the desk to his supervisor's waiting face.

He sighs again.

 

-

 

The drive consists of cheap, strange-smelling motel rooms, multiple coffee stops, two wrong turns, a lot of grit-toothed insults being growled in the direction of the GPS for a couple of stupid reasons including the two wrong turns, and more tolls than he was initially expecting. He could have chosen to fly out and have his equipment and personal belongings shipped to him, but considering he isn't the biggest fan of airplanes and really doesn't trust ALL of his packages to arrive to him safely and correctly in such an out-of-the-way desert town, this was his next best option.

He's a lot more pleased to see civilization in the distance than he figured he would be. As he closes in on the town, just after passing the 'NIGHT VALE, NEXT EXIT' sign, his GPS loses its satellite feed for what appears to be the last time. He thinks this is good timing, because he probably isn't going to need it anymore until he finally leaves town.

He checks his phone just in case, though. At least his cell reception seems to have maintained itself.

His first day in town is a little bit of a blur. 

It's obvious that the people here aren't particularly used to strange outsiders. When he stops at a gas station to fill up and ask for directions to the pizza parlor that his new lab is supposedly located next to, he can feel everyone in the vicinity train their eyes, with unnerving intensity, solely on him. Even the clerk behind the counter is looking at him like she can't believe he's here, like she's been waiting for someone new to come in and ask her a question for months. He pretends to ignore it, pays for his gas, and leaves as politely as he can without making any further eye contact with anyone. 

The lab is smaller than he's used to, but since he'll be working with a small staff (due out in a few days, so he can get acquainted with the town without interruption) and otherwise by himself, it'll do fine. He spends most of the rest of the day unpacking, rearranging, making notes of where he's putting everything and creating an inventory of his current provisions. Days devoted strictly to the set-up or break-down of a laboratorial environment are his least favourite kinds of days - surprising, considering how organized and a little obsessive about workplace cleanliness he is - so he tries to get through it as quickly as he can.

Once he's satisfied enough to be technically considered 'finished' with his task, he takes the remainder of his luggage up to the apartment.

An even more tedious and unenjoyable task, in his opinion.

He decides, as the first wave of oncoming exhaustion ripples through him, that this can wait another day. He's lived out of a suitcase for longer than one night. This won't be much of an inconvenience to him at all. He unpacks the basics - necessary toiletries, enough clothing for the next day, his alarm clock, and his phone's charger. He makes the bed in the tiny bedroom with his own personal pillows and blankets, goes about his nightly routine, plugs in and sets his alarm for the next morning, and settles into bed to check his emails and go over his schedule for the week.

The apartment starts getting to him almost immediately. It's unfamiliar and naked, unpleasantly silent compared to his old place back in New York. The vast eeriness of nothing replaces the usual white noise of a city, the occasional call or shriek of a desert animal in the distance replaces the usual echoing sirens. Something about living in a large city has made him feel safe, up until now - the idea that there were people still awake until the early hours of the morning when he, too, couldn't stop working on something had been incredibly reassuring.

No more than twenty minutes pass by before he reaches over to turn on the radio of his alarm clock. He needs humanity. He needs something to remind him that there are people out there, still functioning just as he is.

It takes him a few station turns to escape static or almost unidentifiably muffled music to reach something that comes through crisp, clear, and unquestionably _alive_.

"-- nce the dust devils have all cleared out, we will all have a chance to join together as a community to help out with the usual post-dust devil mandated cleanup. Remember to wear your rubber gloves and flu masks and knee-high galoshes, folks! The process, if anyone can recall from our last encounter, can turn out to be _quite_ messy."

Carlos glances sidelong at his radio as his emails load with a slightly arched eyebrow.

"But that, my friends - _dear_ friends and neighbors - can wait until tomorrow. For the remainder of tonight, be thankful. Be _grateful_. Be satiated and satisfied with your existence as you live it out in a town and a community like ours. Push the complexities and intricacies of your delicate, soft, limited lifespans to the backs of your minds, for now, and allow the airwaves to carry my voice to you, over you, _through_ you like the comforting warmth of a mother's six-armed embrace. Know well, listeners, that tomorrow - whether the sun decides to rise or not - will be the start of another day. 

Coming up next, for those night-owls who are tuned in: an hour and a half of the infrequent buzzing of a mosquito, just along the shell of your ear when you're least expecting it. For everyone else out there… goodnight, Night Vale. _Goodnight_."

Carlos has shifted a little, phone in his lap, head canted toward the radio and resting back against the wooden bed frame behind him. He's not sure what to be expecting with the promise of the next program, but just in case, he impulsively reaches out to switch the radio off. Between that and silence, if given the choice, he'd rather take the silence.

It's true that the baritone narrative melting out of his radio had lulled him into a strangely complacent state of relaxation, despite the uneasiness he'd felt only moments before in the quiet of his new bedroom, but he's not as focused on that as he is on the fact that there is someone in this town that seems to know and care a _lot_ about it.

Night Vale has a voice. Literally. And it could possibly work to Carlos's advantage.

He jabs a note down in his phone's calendar. Keeping someone like this radio broadcaster in his network would probably wind up doing him a _very_ big favour in the long run.

 

-

 

The next morning, he wakes up early to brew some fresh coffee and dig out a few handfuls of dry cereal from the box he brought with him before contacting the city council to propose a brief town meeting, during which, he presses, he can introduce himself and explain his presence about town, should anyone become too overwhelmingly curious or even nervous about his behaviour. He _will_ be conducting experiments and readings across Night Vale for the next year, at the very least, and he wants to assure everyone that he is harmless and non-threatening. He didn’t much like the looks he received (save for that of the gas station clerk) the day before, and he feels that clearing the air a little may alleviate any suspicion aimed toward him.

The phone call, put simply, is unnerving from start to finish. He gets across what he needs to, but is met with distracted replies with a backdrop of faint hisses and clicks and buzzes like flies, put together in a pattern that is too soft for Carlos to distinctly point out, and only grow louder just before the end of the call. Almost unbearably louder, actually.

He tries his best to shake off his trepidation and write up a basic script to follow for his meeting, making sure to hit every point that he can to reassure the townspeople of Night Vale that he, essentially, comes in peace. That line in particular flashes jokingly through his head, and he finds it to be implacably ironic, in a way.

About halfway through, he’s interrupted by a loud _THUNK_ against the outer wall of the building and he startles, jerking his head up in the direction of the door. He tucks his pen behind his ear as he pads slowly across the small apartment, carefully opening the door to peer through the crack of it. He can’t see anyone or anything, so he pulls the door open a little further to take a tentative step out onto the front step to look around.

When he turns his head, he sees an arrow – crude and amateur, hand-made without a doubt – stuck into the side paneling just beside the door’s frame. There is a piece of paper wound around the body of it, tied together with a long, scratchy piece of twine.

Carlos casts another uncertain look around, making a point to look _below_ him, as well, closer to the ground where the entrance of his lab is. Nothing. Nobody. He is, presumably, completely alone.

Licking his lips, he grips the arrow and gives it a strong pull, dislodging it from where it’s landed and quickly slinking back into the relative safety of his apartment.

The note is a welcome from the mayor herself. It explains that Night Vale is a community that is dedicated to the safety and welfare of its citizens (there is a bolded asterisk beside the word ‘welfare’, but there is nowhere on the note that Carlos can see that gives him any further explanation) and there are rules to abide by that will ensure that this remains a constant. The message from the mayor – Pamela Winchell, he reads, located under the closer ‘Enjoy Your Time With Us’ as a shaky, unsteady signature punctuated with dark blots of ink – itself is short, and under it is a fine-print list of ‘basic laws and regulations’ to follow while he’s in town. The print is so small that even with his glasses, Carlos has to squint and bring the paper close enough that his nose almost touches it to even make out any of the words.

It all sounds too ridiculous to be real and he suddenly feels like he’s been tossed into a gigantic joke again. No talking about angels or clouds or the moon. No pens or pencils – at this, Carlos becomes _too_ aware of the one resting in the crook of the shell of his ear, and he immediately pulls it out and sets it aside. Something about the dog park. Unlawful to keep books in private homes. There is, put lightly, a lot to digest and a lot to take in. By the time he gets to the bottom of the slightly singed parchment, he’s rubbing at one of his temples and shaking his head slightly.

He pockets the list regardless of how surreal it seems to him. If these rules really do stand firm and are regulated by law enforcements, he’ll have to make sure he memorizes them. The last thing he wants is to be persecuted for something in a town like this. 

Especially if it’s using a _pen_. Or reading a _book_. As a _scientist_. He makes a mental note to talk to someone with authority on that bit and see if he can get those two rules excused on the grounds that he really kind of needs pens and books. For his job. _As a scientist_.

Fortunately for Carlos, he has become exceptionally good at placing personal feelings (most of which, currently, are pointing toward extreme caution, cynicism, and uncertainty’s directions) aside for the sake of getting a job done, and he manages to finish his short outline for the meeting. He glances at his watch and double-takes. How could twenty-five minutes have passed since he woke up what _feels_ like over an hour and a half ago? He shakes his wrist, lifts it to his ear and hears the telltale ticking of time, assuring him that the device is very much working. Just not working correctly.

Another mental note: see if there’s anyone in town who can fix watches.

He showers, dresses, gathers his notes together, and leaves for city hall, pointedly ignoring the temptation to grab a slice of pizza from the establishment next door on the way out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (a) having [this Tumblr](http://cecilspeaks.tumblr.com/) open while writing is incredibly helpful.  
> (b) the live show was amazing and really fun and getting to hear Carlos's new voice really helped me to imagine his dialogue better.  
> (c) I wrote this chapter around a very busy weekend so I am sorry if it's kind of crap. it might not be. but the apology is there in case it is.
> 
> thanks much for the kudos and comments!
> 
> * * *

The town meeting, fortunately, goes smoothly.

Armed and fully prepared with the knowledge that he is likely to be up on a podium in front of a _very_ strange array of people, he makes sure to put on the most charming display that he can manage. He speaks with a bold, confident tone, he uses his hands to animate the speech along, and most importantly, he _smiles_. Typically he's not one to care much about the way he handles himself during a meeting, but this is a little different - this is a first impression that he is determined to nail considering he already has a strange feeling about this town, and being in everyone's good graces from the literal first instant of introducing himself sounds profoundly beneficial to his stay here.

He assures them that he isn't here to intrude on anyone's daily lives, and will try to keep his team and his work as inclusive as possible. He suggests that if anyone should have any questions regarding his work or even regarding anything scientific in nature while he's in Night Vale, they are more than welcome to approach him. He even goes so far to say that even after one day of residency, he finds Night Vale to be, by far, _the_ most scientifically interesting town in the United States.

He originally had 'scientifically improbable' scrawled on his notes, but revised the statement to keep from potentially accidentally insulting anyone. 

There’s a decent turnout of people (he’d honestly only been expecting town officials and maybe a reporter or two) and everyone lets him say what he has to without interruptions or nagging questions. The eyes staring back at him from beyond the podium no longer look at him with distrust. Now, they watch him curiously and maybe even a touch intrigued. He tries not to look at the dark figures lurking toward the back of the room. Afterward, there are the expected introductions and pleasantries from those who have decided to stick around a little longer, even corn muffins that taste a bit bland, but are still very much appreciated just for the thought of it. The old woman who made the muffins – Josie, he learns – smiles at him as she introduces herself, very wide, and pats him multiple times on the arm before finally moving on.

The next person to approach him is just the person he wants to see, even if he has no idea at the time.

The man is a walking optical illusion. The moment Carlos’s eyes land on him, he somehow becomes the only person in the room. He is completely and perfectly average in both height and build, but his limbs are gangly enough to make him look a lot taller, somehow. More _stretched_. The way he carries himself helps to elongate him, too; head up, chest out, posture bone-straight. His mouth is parting in a gradually widening grin as he approaches him and the eyes peering at him from behind the lenses of his glasses are bright, vibrant. His skin is pale and, with the exception of a faint, horizontally crescent-shaped scar in the center of his forehead just above the space between his dark eyebrows, is almost perfect. He’s a good looking a man as far as Carlos is concerned, but something in the excitement that seems to be _just barely_ restrained behind his eyes and his mouth is the slightest bit off-putting. Carlos is not exactly used to people looking at him like that.  

His outstretched hand indicates to Carlos that he wants a handshake, and he instinctively reciprocates the gesture, only to have his hand engulfed in both of the other man’s. The fingers are long, caging around his own, and the palms are unfamiliarly and almost uncomfortably warm. 

“Oh, Mr. _Scientist_!” the man crows gleefully, giving Carlos’s hand a few too many shakes. “Welcome to Night Vale, I cannot tell you how exciting it is to have someone with such esteemed experience gracing our sleepy little town!”

“Ah, hi, yes, thank you,” Carlos responds, amicably and awkwardly, trying to figure out when would be okay to worm his hand out of the death grip it seems to be trapped in. “It's a pleasure to meet you…?” He trails off, squints a little, leaving the introduction open-ended. The man catches on instantly.

“Oh, how rude of me,” he replies. “I’m Cecil, Cecil Palmer. I run a radio show down at the Night Vale Community Radio station.” He leans in a little closer, almost conspiratorially. Carlos fights hard against the urge to lean back. “The number _one_ source for news and updates on the goings-on in Night Vale.”

Something must shift, then, in Carlos’s expression, something like recognition or remembrance, because before Carlos can even open his mouth, the excited light behind Cecil’s eyes seems to crank up another couple of notches.

“Oh… you know?” Carlos uses this opportunity to finally slip his hand free and slide it into his lab coat pocket, removing his phone. “I tuned in for a few minutes last night and I thought maybe, since you seem to be the one people listen to around here, I could get the contact information for the station in case I find something that needs to be made public in an expedited manner.” He glances from the phone screen up to Cecil’s waiting face. “If that’s okay with you, of course.”

“Abso _lutely_ , Mr. Scientist,” Cecil is all too quick to agree. “Absolutely! Anything you need, any information at all, I am your willing, veritable fountain of knowledge.”

Carlos can’t help it. He smirks a little. “Uh, no need for the formalities.” The _weird_ formalities, he almost says, but stops himself. “You can call me Carlos, it’s fine.”

“ _Carlos_ ,” Cecil breathes, like it’s the first time he’s ever heard, repeated, tasted the name in his mouth. The discomfort returns, but it’s not as strong as it was before. “Yes, _Carlos_. I’ll call you Carlos, then.”

Carlos arches an eyebrow. Continues to smile, but the smile is now turning his lips inward a little over his teeth like they want to stifle a laugh, the way anyone would when up against such a peculiar human being. “Okay. Great. Good.”

And then they stand there, staring at one another. One, expectant. The other, smiling obliviously.

“Um.” Carlos holds his phone up a little. “Station contact information? If that’s still okay?”

Cecil blinks quickly and rapidly like someone just woke him out of hypnosis. “Oh!” He takes the phone gingerly. “Oh, yes, I’m sorry. Must have left my manners back at the station today.” His fingers move quickly and deftly across the phone’s keyboard. "My mother always used to say to me, 'Cecil', she'd say, 'The most important thing in life is the true realization of existential despondency and futility along the acceptance that we are are just tiny, _infinitesimal_ ants on a ill-fated journey up along a hill made of useless hopes and dashed dreams. The second most important thing is manners. Now please, _please_ , for the love of everything that is and ever was good and holy, go away and leave me alone'." He chuckles to himself, fondly, and places the phone back into Carlos's frozen, outstretched hand. "She was a gas."

"…I.. see," Carlos says slowly, sliding his phone back into his lab coat's pocket. "Those are pretty meaningful life lessons."

"Of course!" Cecil responds, and his hands take a moment to adjust his suspenders before they shove themselves into the pockets of his slacks. "This town thrives on that sort of outlook. We may be a small people, Carlos, but that will never negate how strong and proud and noble we are."

If anyone else had been talking this entire time, Carlos probably would have excused himself pretty instantly. The only thing that Cecil has going for him right now is the fact that his voice is like a lullaby, not as deep and velvety as it had been on the air the previous night but still _remarkably_ pleasant, and Carlos finds himself feeling totally fine with the extended and rather pointless discussion.

"Well!" Cecil quips before Carlos can think of something neutral to respond with, rocking on his heels the slightest bit. “I should probably let you go. You undoubtedly have a lot to do to get adjusted here. And lots of _science_ to get down to, I’m sure.”

“Always,” Carlos agrees, crossing his arms over his chest because he never knows what to do with them during idle, easy conversation. “You’ll be the first to know if anything big happens, though, I assure you."

Jesus, this guy is just so _strange_ , the way his expressions hide absolutely nothing about his emotions. His face has just melted into pure, unadulterated happiness and Carlos is at a loss because nobody he’s ever had to deal with has been _this_ forward on a first meeting before. Especially not a grown man.

“That would be _wonderful_ ,” he replies wistfully. _Wistfully_. “You can contact me whenever you want, even if I’m on the air at the time. I know that your time is highly valuable and I can _promise_ you that I will drop everything the moment you need me for something. Anything! Anything at _all_.”

“I appreciate that,” Carlos says, while thinking _oh my god_. "I, uh. Look forward to learning more about your town and understanding your customs." - oh, that sounded _pretty awful_ but there's nothing Carlos can do to take it back, and he REALLY isn't the type to verbally backpedal and make a fool out of himself. So, swallowing his steadily rising embarrassment, he settles for sticking out his hand again, wondering if maybe he should probably not be doing that but realizing that it's too late to back out now. "It was a pleasure, Mr. Palmer."

As expected, both hands return to the one Carlos offers, but the shake is much more subdued, this time. "It was, wasn't it?" he sighs back, then clears his throat and withdraws with a shaky but charming smile. "And, _please_ , if I'm to call you Carlos, then you should call me Cecil."

Carlos feels the corners of his mouth turning up a little against his will. "Alright. Cecil. You take care. And thank you again, for the information."

"Anything at all," Cecil repeats before turning to leave. Carlos stays where he is, watching his retreat as he expertly and smoothly weaves his way through the scattered Night Vale citizens still hanging about and mechanically chewing on pieces of muffin. Only once, Carlos notices, does he stop, and it's when he reaches the exit. He stops and he looks back and Carlos suddenly feels very rude for staring, but he smiles again and gives Cecil a departing nod. Cecil returns the gesture with a raised wave of his hand before disappearing through the double-doors.

 

-

 

The next day, Carlos's team arrives. They are a group of five that come together, having all flown in on the same plane, and all of them seem to have the same small, nit-picking but very strange complaints about the flight's descent. They complain about the lights flickering alarmingly and hearing the same buzzing static at the same time, all through their own personal headphones. Stranger still, they all felt the same panic that one would experience right at the moment of severe turbulence but the plane had remained completely steady, at the time. 

Carlos makes mental notations of these occurrences because he can't very well jot them down on a notepad the way he'd prefer. This train of thought leads him into his own personalized introduction to Night Vale. He explains all of the unorthodox and slightly unbelievable rules that he'd read from the mayor's note the day before and each one gets an even longer stream of slightly nervous laughter from the team than the last.

Finally, one of them asks him, "You're positive that this whole thing isn't a joke, right? Are we being punked right now or what?"

Unfortunately, Carlos admits to her, things might actually be a lot easier to stomach if they were.

He wastes no time in setting the team to work. 

Over the next handful of days, Carlos tries to cover as much proverbial ground as is manageable. He runs a few preliminary tests on the radiation levels around town (which, as his initial assignment had warned, seem to be a little too high for a remote and semi-isolated desert community) and notes that the highest level seems to be in the same area as the radio station, ironically enough. _Would explain a thing or two_ , he thinks with dry amusement, remembering his encounter with Cecil, but the amusement in that thought dies quickly when he realizes that… it might actually and realistically explain a thing or two.

Then, Carlos is alerted to a particular house near the town's elementary school by one of his scientists, Jeff. Jeff has passed by it on his way out to the lab that day and is convinced that something is strange about it, mentioning that it SEEMS to be there but something in the back of his mind (which, he tacks on, has given him a _frightful_ migraine) tells him that it's not. Carlos warned his team about the strange occurrences in Night Vale, but he still doesn't think that they're entirely convinced yet - not until Jeff's 'discovery', at least.

Carlos goes out to investigate with the rest of the crew, and instantly, everyone feels it. Their own eyes are seeing the house. They're describing it aloud to one another to make sure that they are all seeing the same thing. They are, which is comforting, but at the same time each description seems to end in an uncertain upward lilt, like they know what they're talking about until they arrive at the definitive punctuation, and then they aren't so sure anymore. They all feel the same little nagging denial that the house is there, and they all start getting headaches because of it.

"I dare anyone to go knock," Jeff says, and that's when Carlos decides it's time to go, for now.

It doesn't take Carlos long after that to realize that there is actually a LOT to cover in Night Vale. Going over the full extent of the report was a bit overwhelming, so he figures that regrouping and starting from the LITERAL ground up would be his best option.

He takes two people from his team, Abigail and Flynn, a little further out into the desert to a monitoring station just off of Route 88. Abigail has an interest in meteorology and Flynn's background is solely in geographical sciences; they're the ones whom Carlos figures would hold the most interest in what's been reportedly happening to the earth below Night Vale. They spend a little over an entire day out there, from early morning to even earlier the next morning, living off of granola bars and _extremely_ undesirable coffee. They find, with mutually shared disbelief slowly transforming itself into grave concern, that the seismic activity happening in the area, just underneath them, should be devastating. There is no actual, logical way that a town as small as Night Vale is in comparison to other cities above such highly active fault lines would stay standing as untouched and unaffected as it is. In fact, according to Flynn, who has brought multiple charts depicting quake activity throughout the entire United States within the last decade, this area of the country should not have fault lines that fall under the red category _at all_. Areas like this, Flynn states, are only really found in the southern regions of Alaska, along the entire western coast from Washington down to California, and in the more north-western parts of Wyoming. This area's severity, he says, _shouldn't_ be anywhere near it, let alone at the exact same degree.

He and Abigail seem frightened and confused. Carlos feels the entire thing is ominous and disconcerting as well, but he doesn't want to let on in front of them. Right now he's technically their boss, and if it turns out that he is a lot more capable of putting irrational fears and emotions way high up on a mental shelf that he can barely reach for the sake of putting all of Night Vale's puzzle pieces into some kind of coherent order, so be it. He can handle that. Scientists should _always_ be able to handle that.

He assigns Abigail and Flynn to cover this particular phenomenon throughout their time spent in Night Vale. While reluctant, they obviously can't deny the curiosity to learn and know more about what's going on. Carlos can tell that it's very much a double-edged sword for them. Yes, unexplained catastrophic seismic activity that doesn't seem to be outwardly felt or affecting _anything_ is pretty intimidating, but they also can't deny the delicious pull that all scientists feel to know, to learn, and to understand.

That same pull is what's keeping Carlos here and committed to his assignment, after all.

 

-

 

The day Carlos decides to head to the radio station to test the radiation levels more closely, the sun sets approximately ten minutes late. Abigail is the one to make that particular discovery, and Carlos takes some time to check every single clock in the vicinity of the lab and even up in his apartment to be sure.

This, he thinks, would be as good a time as any to speak to Cecil. It might be good for the town to know what he and his team are finding.

When he arrives at the station, he’s greeted by a friendly intern by the name of Frankie who is a little nervous to let him on the premises without Cecil’s or the station management’s permission, but he assures him that he’s only here to run a few tests, nothing too intrusive. This seems to help, and when the young man curiously asks Carlos exactly what he’s testing for, he suddenly thinks that maybe telling people in an enclosed environment that he’s looking at possibly sky-high radiation levels would be ill-advised. Instead, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, which happens to be the word, “Materials.”

… _materials_. Seriously, Carlos?

Fortunately for him and his lack of quick social prowess, the intern has _absolutely no idea_ what that's supposed to mean and, by proxy, accepts the answer as adequate instantly. "Ohh," he says with the light, neutral air of someone who is pretending to understand something said to him but really, really doesn't. "I guess that's okay, then." And he lets Carlos in without second thought.

The long, narrowed hallways that Frankie leads him through are coming back with high results, and Carlos starts to feel uneasy. His monitor is telling him that this is an at-risk location and should _probably_ not be an actual, working establishment, but he really doesn't want to say anything to an intern. This discussion is best left for the management, but when Carlos asks if he could have a word with them, is met with Frankie looking back at him and frantically shaking his head. "Oh, oh no, they're very busy," Frankie says in a hushed and fearful tone. "Very… very….. _very_ busy."

"Okay," Carlos agrees slowly, as the monitor in his hands continues to tell him that he should think about getting out of the building, _now_. "Is there any chance I could speak with Cecil Palmer, then? I need to discuss a few things with him, anyway."

"Oh, Mr. Palmer is probably on the air right now but I'm sure he could spare a second." Frankie slows, looks down at his monitor and then back at him again with a curiously lifted eyebrow. "Are you finding that many materials?"

Carlos forcibly shoves back a sigh. _Materials_. Ugh. "Everything is fine," he lies, and would feel a little guilty if Frankie didn't look visibly relieved at the assurance. "I just need to have a word with someone who knows this station really well."

"Mr. Palmer's your best bet, then," Frankie tells him as they stop in front of a room toward the end of the fifth long, labyrinthian hallways that they've walked through. The door has a placard that says "Sound Booth" and there is a small red "ON AIR" sign is lit up above it. Curiously, Carlos leans over a little to peer into the window beside the door, and he sees Cecil sitting at his sound board, headphones on his head and hands expressively gesturing as he speaks almost totally against the pop filter on his microphone. He looks just as meticulously and almost purposely unkempt as he did at the town meeting, with his hair messy and spilling across his forehead and his clothing slightly rumpled

"Are you sure it's okay that I'm here right now?" Carlos murmurs as he watches Cecil work.

"Oh, yeah, I interrupt him to hand him important reports and messages from management all the time." Frankie turns the knob and carefully opens the door, touching a finger to his lips to ask Carlos to stay quiet. Ever conscientious, he reluctantly shuts down his noisy monitoring device for the time being.

"--remind you that you should not set your speed by these apparitions," Cecil is saying as Carlos turns the corner into the booth, his voice like the dark velvet of midnight. "and doing so will not be considered following the flow of traffic."

He glances up as Frankie quietly shuts the door behind Carlos. His entire expression brightens tremendously and he gives Carlos an enthusiastic wave. "One minute," he mouths and Carlos nods his understanding. 

"However," Cecil goes on. "they do say that it's _probably_ safe to match speed with the mysterious lights in the sky, as whatever entities or organizations responsible appear to be cautious and _reasonable_ drivers.

And now, the weather."

Cecil pushes a button on his board and flicks a switch before sliding off his headphones and pushing away from the desk to stand up. 

"Mr. Scientist," he greets, then revises, " _Carlos_. Carlos the Scientist. This is a nice surprise!"

"Cecil," Carlos says evenly, and switches his monitor back on. It instantly starts beeping again and Carlos feels a slight, tight little coil of panic planting itself in his stomach. "I'm going to skip the formalities because I don't like the noises this thing is making."

"What is it?" Cecil asks, peering at the monitor curiously. "Are you running experiments or tests here?" His eyes flick to Frankie and he's suddenly beaming. "Are you conducting science, _here_ , right here in my very own sound booth?"

"In a manner of speaking," Carlos rushes. "Look, Cecil, I have a lot to discuss with you but this doesn't sound good. Do you mind if I just test the room for a minute?"

"By all means!" Cecil takes a step back, crossing his long arms over his chest. "If you need the entire room, it _must_ be very important."

"He testing for materials," Frankie cuts in and sounds like a child who just answered a test question correctly in front of the class, extremely proud that (a) he remembered, (b) he quite possibly just said something very scientific and smart.

"I _see_ ," Cecil replies, and says something else to his intern but Carlos doesn't catch it because the monitor is getting louder and more agitated with each step closer to the sound board. 

This is _not_ good.

The levels are through the roof when he sweeps the monitor into the direct vicinity of Cecil's microphone.

Oh this is _really_ not good.

"Cecil, this…" Carlos swallows as that coil of panic unfurls and fully blossoms. "This is bad, this is could be _really_ bad. We shouldn't be here." He switches the monitor off, turning to the radio host and his intern. " _Nobody_ should be in here. I would actually advise anyone in the building to immediately evacuate."

"Evacuate?" Cecil looks and sounds disappointed. "But we're in the middle of a broadcast, my listeners _need_ me. I can't just _leave_ the station. Nobody else can report the news." His disappointment melts into a shyness that Carlos notices and isn't expecting, even through his growing anxiety. "Besides, I was hoping that maybe you could stay for an interview…"

"Maybe another time, Cecil, but this station is potentially _incredibly_ dangerous." He starts for the door, which Frankie clumsily opens for him, his eyebrows drawn together with a mix of confusion and worry.

Logically, Carlos knows that leaving is the smartest option. He attempts but in the end fails to ignore how guilty he feels when he does.


End file.
